He Loves Lucy

by Ann Yost

  There was no mistaking his intent. Lucy circled the car and got in under the wheel. Shirley must have realized he meant business because she let him shove her up onto the console. He got in after her and closed the door.

  “You ever driven one of these before?”

  According to Flynn, only three hundred Bugattis had been sold in the whole world. It was an idiot question.

  “No.”

  “Any stick?”

  She figured it wasn’t the time to mention the deal she’d made with her Behind-the-wheel instructor in high school. I’ll pass you, Lucy, if you promise never, never to drive a stick.

  “Sure.” The pistol, she noticed, lay loosely clasped in Moore’s hand. He could discharge a bullet through Shirley’s brain—or hers—in less time than it would take for her to turn the ignition.

  “This is a seven-speed. Non-synchronized gears but a standard ‘H’ configuration, just with an extra ‘H.’ Reverse is outside the ‘H’ on the left-hand side.”

  Lucy shoved the stick into what she hoped was reverse and the gears squealed. Moore cursed savagely. He’d probably really enjoy killing her when this was over for what she was doing to his car.

  “The clutch, Ms. Outlaw. Don’t forget the clutch. Left foot.”

  Ah. She’d forgotten about the clutch. Briefly, she recalled the way she’d bumped and ground her way down Main Street during her less-than-successful driving class. She stomped on the clutch and tried to shift again.

  “Hit the gas with your right foot.”

  The car jumped, exploding down the driveway like a shooting star. Claude Moore would have made a good driving instructor if he hadn’t been so busy killing people. She turned the steering wheel when she got to the street. It, too, responded like a thousand-dollar-a-night hooker. How to get it to go forward?

  “A standard ‘H,’” he barked, as if she could understand him. She heard the strain under the words. The man was hurting. Suddenly he bent forward and retched.

  “You should probably lie down.”

  “You should probably shift into first, if you’re interested in continuing to breathe.”

  Lucy shoved the stick forward. The car bounced.

  “The clutch, Ms. Outlaw! The clutch!”

  She had the distinct impression that the anguish over his car was diverting him from his roiling stomach.

  “This is not an Easter ham. It’s a two-million-dollar vehicle and requires a light touch.” He retched, again. The Bugatti was starting to take on an unpleasant odor.

  “Car practically drives itself,” he continued, like a father bragging about his child. “You’ll see when we get on the country roads.”

  The country roads? Where were they going? And what did Claude intend to do with them when they got there? Uneasiness clawed at Lucy’s stomach. Or maybe it was the stench.

  “Why are you kidnapping Shirley?”

  He growled as the car stuttered again. “Move up to fourth gear, dammit.”

  A distraught Claude, she thought, was marginally safer than a cocky Claude. She depressed the accelerator but deliberately didn’t use the clutch.

  “Goddammit, Ms. Outlaw! Can’t you do anything right?” The effort of yelling at her had him bent over. For once, though, the familiar comment didn’t hurt.

  “You know,” she said, feeling sassy, suddenly, “you’re in the midst of kidnapping two women and you probably murdered your best friend. Seems to me your car isn’t your biggest problem.”

  “It’s not a car. It’s a Bugatti.”

  “Yeah, well if anything happens to Shirley or me, the Bugatti is gonna be scrap metal. My fiancé will take it apart with his bare hands.”

  “Nothing will happen to you,” he snapped. “Shirley was insurance. You’re just a pain in the ass.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  “Shocker.”

  The car leapt forward even with Lucy’s less than competent driving skills. It really did drive itself. And it really was a pleasure to be behind the wheel. For an instant, Lucy forgot about the danger she and Shirley were in.

  “Turn at that light,” Claude directed. “You’ll have to downshift through all the gears. Just keep the clutch in while you’re doing it.”

  She focused on his instructions. This time the car obeyed without the convulsions.

  “Not bad.”

  Faint praise from a murderer. Lucy felt absurdly proud and marginally more confident. She decided to go for broke.

  “Why’d you kill your best friend?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Come on, Claude. You must have had a reason.”

  He shot her a look of hatred and he didn’t answer but Lucy knew. It wasn’t only women who could be scorned.

  Nate Packer, debonair, self-assured and careless, had betrayed Claude Moore when he married Paula, dissolved the original company and the original friendships along with it. It was as simple as that.

  She shivered and shifted to a higher gear.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jake was only vaguely aware of the dropping temperature and the rain splashing off his fingers as he leaned against the railing and stared moodily out into the dark but a signal from his cell broke the trance.

  “Sheriff? Homer, here. We’ve got a situation.”

  Damn. He’d forgotten about the surveillance. Had the suspect made his move? Jake’s pulse quickened.

  “Shoot.”

  “Mrs. Packer’s been kidnapped.”

  “What? You were supposed to be watching her.”

  “Not that Mrs. Packer. The other one. The ex.”

  “Shirley? Shirley’s been kidnapped?”

  Jake knew he sounded like a confused parrot. Luckily, Homer was infinitely patient.

  “I was watching t’other one. But that lawyer fooled us, boss. Our best guess is he’s aimin’ for the Canadian border. The Bangor patrol noticed the sports car heading north out of town.”

  “Let me get this straight. Moore kidnapped Shirley Packer, right? How did you find out?”

  “Call to Bangor 9-1-1. A civilian went to the Cherrydale house and interrupted the kidnapping.”

  A shiver of premonition worked its way up Jake’s spine.

  “What civilian?”

  Homer hesitated. “It was Lucy. Lucy Outlaw.”

  Well, hell.

  Tension knotted Jake’s chest. He could barely breathe. Why the hell would Lucy be in Bangor at this time of night? It couldn’t be Lucy.

  “It can’t be Lucy,” he said, voicing his thoughts. “Lucy’s home.”

  “She’s there with you?” He heard the relief in his deputy’s voice.

  “No.” Jake hated to air their dirty laundry but everyone would know soon enough. “She’s back at the Outlaws.”

  “Well, her Jeep’s settin’ in front of Mrs. Packer’s house on Cherry Street.”

  “Where’s Lucy now?” Even as he asked the question, he knew. She was in the middle of the action. Lucy was in trouble. Homer’s next words confirmed it.

  “We think Moore’s got her, too.”

  For an instant, panic paralyzed Jake. Then he jammed on his sneakers, grabbed his gun belt and scooped the car keys out of the fruit bowl near the back door and sprinted to the Blazer.

  “I’m on my way.”

  He heard the tires squeal and the felt the vehicle sway as he gunned the motor and shot backwards onto the street.

  “Sheriff?”

  He hadn’t realized he was still on the phone.

  “Yeah?”

  “You leave anybody home with the kids?”

  Goddammit! For an instant he considered leaving them home alone. They were safe and Lucy wasn’t. And he needed to know she was all right. His gut twisted.

  “Call the Garden of Eden Inn. Ask Ms. Johnson to send the kids grandparents over to the house.”

  “Roger, boss.”

  “Homer.”

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “Call me back a.s.a.p.”

  �
�You got it.”

  In the jumble of confusion and fear something came to Jake. A gift from a forgiving God. Moore was an amateur pilot. He wasn’t heading to the border. He was heading to that little airstrip on the north side of Bangor. When the cell buzzed again, he reported that to his deputy.

  “I’ll meet you out there. You and any other backup you can round up.”

  “Roger, boss.”

  When this was over and Lucy was safe, he was gonna have to cure Homer of using that expression. He scowled at the rain-spattered windshield. When this was over and Lucy was safe, he wasn’t gonna care about anything else. He stomped on the accelerator, oblivious to the slippery surface of the road or the limited visibility. He’d never been so scared in his life.

  Lucy was in mortal danger and it was all Jake’s fault. His fear-triggered behavior had pushed her out the door.

  If anything happened to her, he’d never forgive himself.

  He’d been a damn fool about that woman. He was still a damn fool but at least now his eyes were open and his priorities were clear. He’d rescue Lucy this one last time and then, come hell or high water, he’d go on rescuing her for the rest of their lives. And he’d let her rescue him, too.

  Jake forced himself to try to get inside Moore’s head, something he’d started to do when Moore shot up to the top of the suspect list because of a couple of recent big deposits Jake had found in his bank account. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel and his eyes narrowed in self-contempt. He’d dropped the ball to attend the engagement party, damn his hide. It seemed likely Moore’d been siphoning funds out of the business since Packer’s death. Jake had been concerned that if Paula suspected the thefts, she would be at risk so he’d had Homer surveiling her house.

  The thing was that, unlike Shirley Packer, Moore hadn’t suffered much financially when Packer had dissolved the partnership. He’d lost some stock options in a stumbling business but, more than that, he’d lost face.

  Shirley hadn’t seemed to mind Nate’s defection but Claude Moore was a different kettle of fish. He was more image-conscious, more compulsive, more needy. Moore would have been wounded and infuriated. It was a tailor-made setup for revenge, a powerful motive for murder.

  And Moore had opportunity. He’d been with Packer at the Tribal Council meeting that night. The alibi that had looked so solid seemed flimsy now. How hard would it have been to trick Mrs. Monaghan?

  Then there was means. They had only Moore’s word for it that he wasn’t a big-game hunter. Wasn’t it more likely that he’d have surpassed the indolent Packer in skill level? It was even possible that it was Claude Moore, not Nate Packer, who’d bagged all those African trophies and that the attorney had let the developer claim all the credit. Then there was the weapon. Death by bow-and-arrow. That clinched the deal as far as Jake was concerned. The irony of using Packer’s favorite killing weapon to kill him seemed perfect for a revenge murder. And the bow and arrow was symbolic of the trips that had marked Moore and Packer’s long friendship. Had Packer understood? Had Moore taken the time to make sure his victim knew what his careless self-centeredness had cost him? Jake felt certain he had.

  What he didn’t understand was why Moore had kidnapped Shirley or what had taken Lucy to the Cherry Street house. At this point the women were hostages and once Moore got to the airport he’d have no more use for them. Jake’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel and he pushed the accelerator to the floor. Twenty minutes later the cell rang.

  “Me and the Bangor cop are at the airport, if you can call it an airport,” Homer reported. “No one’s around.”

  Jake felt a twinge of uncertainty. Had he guessed wrong? “Get out an all-points bulletin, Homer, instructions not to stop the Bugatti but to keep an eye on it. Meanwhile sit tight out there. If he shows up, remember he’s probably armed and desperate and he’ll probably try to jettison his hostages.” Jake’s throat was dryer than a Maine drought. He could barely get the words out.

  “I hear ya,” Homer said, sympathetically. “Roger, over and out.”

  This time Jake didn’t think about Homer’s habit. He didn’t think about anything except getting Lucy out of danger and back into his arms.

  ****

  Lucy felt oddly calm and she wasn’t sure why.

  It might have been because of the car. Driving the Bugatti was almost like flying. If she’d been with anyone but a murderer, she’d have shared her sense of exhilaration.

  It might have been because, in a weird way, she controlled her fate. She’d gotten so tired of the rollercoaster relationship with Jake. This situation was about as far from emotions as it was possible to get. She’d need to rely on her wits, she knew that. In spite of his protests, she was pretty sure Moore intended to get rid of them both. They were just excess baggage.

  Lucy figured she had a half an hour—the length of time it would take to reach the border—to figure out how to rescue herself and Shirley. She was banking on the injury to help. Moore had begun to moan, softly, and to clutch at his head.

  There was nothing worse than a pounding headache, unless it was urgent nausea. The lawyer seemed to be suffering from both.

  “Turn at the next right.” She made a face. The man sounded dismayingly clearheaded. “And downshift. It’s a dirt road.”

  The last command came just in time. Lucy jammed her foot on the clutch and moved the gear stick from seven to six to five to four. She took the turn a little too fast but the car cornered beautifully.

  She heard Moore gasp and glanced at him. The car’s dashboard, which resembled the Starfleet Central command, threw enough light for Lucy to see the sheen of sweat on the attorney’s face. He looked like he was in pain and she thought blood was still oozing out of his head wound.

  Shirley, draped over the console, barely stirred. Had she been drugged? Or had she decided there was no point in conversation or argument?

  “The next turn is in five hundred yards.” Moore’s voice was little more than a gasp. “Downshift to two.”

  Suddenly Lucy realized where they were.

  “Omigod,” she breathed. “The airport.”

  He said nothing as she clutched and downshifted and turned down the short road that ended at the airfield’s unpaved parking lot.

  “Drive up to the third Cessna on the right,” Moore said, “then stop.”

  His breathing had gotten heavier and ragged. She glanced at him again. The bones seemed to stand out on his face as if to remind the world there really was a skeleton under his skin.

  “You should see a doctor,” she said. Distracted, she forgot to clutch before she stopped. The Bugatti shrieked and stalled and Lucy felt a sharp blow against the side of her head.

  “Just a reminder to keep your mind on your task.”

  Just a reminder, she thought, to forget about Claude’s health and focus on the fact that he’d killed Nate Packer and was probably planning to kill her and Shirley. The realization unaccountably, made her bold.

  “You killed those animals, didn’t you? It wasn’t Packer.”

  “Start the car and park over there.”

  She did what he asked. “Nate probably didn’t even know how to shoot a bow and arrow.”

  “He was a poseur. A coward, in fact. Get out of the car, Ms. Outlaw and into the Cessna. Pilot’s seat.”

  “We’re going to fly? At night? In the rain?”

  Stupid questions considering they were already at the airport. He didn’t bother to answer. He opened the passenger side door.

  “Do as I say or I’ll put a bullet through Shirley’s brain. I think it’s unlikely I will miss from here.”

  Lucy got out of the car and climbed into the Cessna. She was relieved that Claude joined her in the co-pilot’s seat without discharging a bullet into Shirley.

  “Are you expecting me to fly this?”

  “It isn’t difficult. You handled the Bugatti.”

  Lucy was absurdly pleased by the compliment.

  “Thank you.�
�

  He responded by doubling over and vomiting on the Cessna’s floor.

  The rain had eased up but the sky was very dark. Lucy knew how dangerous it was to fly this kind of aircraft at night. She knew, too, how dangerous it would be if she simply refused to fly. Claude was sick and probably dizzy but he was functioning enough to shoot her. She had to go along with him until she got an opening of some kind. Unfortunately, she couldn’t really imagine what that would be.

  “Turn it on,” he said. He pointed to the plane’s ignition. Lucy turned.

  “Now what?”

  “It takes a few minutes to warm up.” He dropped his head against the seat rest but he didn’t close his eyes and he didn’t let go of the pistol. Lucy figured she might as well try to get an explanation and she sensed that he wanted someone to understand. The killing had been an emotional response, Lucy felt sure of that.

  “Why’d you kill him, Claude?”

  The lawyer swallowed convulsively, as if trying to control the nausea.

  “He betrayed me. I gave him all those years, all that loyalty. He wanted a dynasty.” He spat. “A dynasty of cowards. All right. Step on the gas and start taxiing out to the runway.”

  “You do realize I’m not a pilot.”

  “I can talk you through it. Use the throttle on the console to give it gas.”

  Lucy felt a flash of fear. This was going to happen. She was going to have to try to get the Cessna into the air and keep it there. A million things could go wrong, not the least of which was that, at any minute, the attorney could decide to kill her. She’d never see Jake again.

  The prospect was almost too bleak to contemplate.

  “We’ll line up there,” Moore said, gesturing behind them, “then make a run up to the end of the airstrip.”

  “What about the trees?”

  “We can go over them or through them, Ms. Outlaw. Your choice.” A low moan followed the dry comment. Moore clutched his stomach again. Suddenly, Lucy panicked.

  “What happens if we’re airborne and you pass out?” A scene from Six Days and Seven Nights flashed before her eyes. “I won’t know how to land. Or where. I don’t know where the brake is.” She figured there was no point in giving him any hope that she could do this.